By HRK, translated by Mamatha
This horse can’t fly
how much ever you may bet on it
it can’t run across any meadow
it can’t even walk
you can’t ride this horse
it will ride on you
it won’t enter in the arena by itself
it will be let in
not just one entry
there are many entries in it
there are many places in it
it will have a big, nicely furnished
womb
it will not give birth to baby horses
it will give birth to adult humans
it has boundless love for its mother Medusa
it has secret enmity raging against Perseus
this horse
is a profound story of death and deception
it is not what it appears to us
it is not what we call by its name
if it was a word, meaning of the word
keeps getting postponed forever
the true meaning
blossoms in the ditches of darkness
in the nights closed shut
like the edge of a spear, it is a
triangle inside of a triangle
inside the triangle of another triangle
each triangle one eon
a eon that shines with ancient beauty
every angle in it, every contour
is a victorious lie
lies celebrate festivals in it
tipsy glasses of wine spill over their edges
very near to the crossroads
of your triangle of eon
a fresh dead body
Father Stan Swamy
he was like a father to the trees
to the children of trees
that no looked after or cared for
he was their mother and the father
their green and moist home
was an abode of many seeds and reed bushes
that home gives food to everyone
even to the horse
trojan horse
wooden horse
it is a horse with wings of wind
swords and daggers inside it are not wind
those are real, real steel
they slit even the sky
with neighing from a foamy mouth
with hooves like hands of death
the horse is entering
not just into the fort
into the houses within the fort
not just into the houses
into the live skulls as well
wingless pegasus is entering
man is a Gaulliver
he gathers up
dwarfs and giants
he gathers during the day and sleeps through the night
at the center of the city
wooden horse with wings of wind
wooden horse that feeds on lies
without interrupting anyone’s sleep
open silently in the night
fort is sleeping in deep slumber
from the belly of the horse
the wretched hour is drawing the swords out
